


almost paradise

by jadedpearl



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bisexual Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, TW diet culture, bachelor in paradise extended universe, bachelor in paradise ie FIRSTHAND nonsense, somehow this is a coffee shop au how did that happen, warnings for influencer culture in general
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28904799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadedpearl/pseuds/jadedpearl
Summary: “Uh huh,” Richie said. “Which is what? What do male influencers peddle, anyway? Eyeliner for men?”“Seltzers, mostly,” Eddie said tersely. “Camping or workout gear. Coffee. Low calorie beers.”Richie turned the corners of his mouth down severely, in what Eddie guessed was an approximation of a Serious Businessman. “Very manly. Heterosexual.”“Hey – ““Although the coffee gives me pause. Seems a little lavender, if you know what I mean. Straight guys just watch the incest Folger’s commercial and they’re sold, right?”....Eddie is a reluctant reality tv star making a living as an influencer in LA. Richie is an annoying barista.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 14
Kudos: 123





	almost paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Housekeeping: Bachelor in Paradise is a spin off of the Bachelor franchise in which former contestants hang out at a beach resort together for six-ish weeks and in theory come away from it engaged. To progress week to week, you must receive a rose from another contestant (the elimination system is kind of like musical chairs, new contestants come in every week, it’s actually incredibly confusing at first). What’s actually important is that there’s a pretty even split of men and women and it’s essentially a free for all with (somewhat) unlimited alcohol and no wifi and adults dating like teenagers until some unseen force (producers) allows them to fuck. It is excellent television. 
> 
> TW for a general discussions of diet/exercise culture, as well as one mention of disordered eating

If you asked Eddie why he decided to give up his anonymity and decency to become a willing participant in reality TV show, he would tell you that he was looking for love, the same as anyone. That he felt like he needed a jump start to his life. And that his mother had been a fan of the Bachelor franchise. 

That was the story he had stuck to: all throughout the audition process; in his first confessional; when he had met everyone else; and, of course, when he’d gotten eliminated, right after the second group date. Watching it all back, nothing had made him cringe like his exit from the Bachelorette – and it was a high bar. After roughly ninety total minutes of air time, Eddie was ready to bury his head under a rock forever. 

He’d gone home, back to his life and his job. And then his job, which was admittedly a short term opening that he’d been hoping would turn into a permanent position, ended, right before the show started airing. And then his Instagram and Twitter follower count started steadily rising. For reasons that mystified and eluded Eddie to this day, he’d somehow managed to make an impact in the hearts of American viewers, in just under three episodes. 

Eddie, unemployed and with access to a smartphone, made a decision. He was technically under no contractual obligation to post online about his experience. He didn’t even have to watch the show if he didn’t want to – and he didn’t. But he also understood how most former Bachelor contestants leveraged their time onto the show into sponsorships, and were able to make a career off of being attractive, fit, and/or interesting. So yeah, he knew what he was doing when he started live-tweeting his season of the Bachelorette. At most, he figured he’d collect a quick check or two promoting a local restaurant or skincare brand, and only until he’d found another job. 

That had been almost two years ago. Now, of course, he was in too deep. If he had known that there was really no coming back from trying to establish himself as an - _oh God_ \- influencer, he probably would have never done it. It didn’t take genius to know that the more time he spent away from the normal workforce, the less hirable he would be if he wanted to go back. Which he did, objectively. He missed the days where he could just go to work 9-5, anonymous in the sweep of other professionals on the subway in his suit and tie. He’d had aspirations, dammit. But now he’d never make partner at a financial firm if there was a chance that some yahoo at a business meeting recognized him as the guy with the short shorts from TV, the one who kept getting pulled into amicable-bordering-on-homoerotic headlocks; the same guy who had almost cried on TV when he hadn’t received a rose.

But dipping his toe in the pond had really only resulted in getting sucked in entirely. He didn’t _want_ to do what he was doing, but now he couldn’t go back, not if he wanted to make rent. Eddie had sold his soul to Chris Harrison: these days he wandered around LA in athleisure and played tennis with other people who had been on the Bachelor. Now he reviewed recipes for quinoa bowls on his Instagram story. He had even played _golf_ , for fuck’s sake; he was a member of Bachelor Nation and was verified on Instagram and Twitter to prove it.

So that all sucked donkey dick. The worst part, of course, was the real reason Eddie had auditioned for the Bachelorette and then dragged himself through every hoop to get onto the show (no, he’d never been arrested; yes, he would take a drug test; no, he didn’t have anything incriminating or unsavory on his Facebook page; yes he had a tragic backstory that could be leveraged for sympathy and a facsimile of emotional openness), which was that at twenty four, when casting had been taking place in New York, Eddie had been in the throes of a major sexuality crisis that he’d been desperate to run away from at any cost. Which included potentially marrying a practical stranger on television. 

Of course, this also meant living with twenty five men, most of whom were boring or real assholes, in the sense that they were self described entrepreneurs. The rest were unfortunately attractive and decently good people, and Eddie was bunked up with them like he was at an adult sleep away camp with alcohol. The fact that there weren’t communal showers was a blessing in more ways than one. 

So. In a weird way, his experience had provided a certain degree of clarity. Namely, that he was into men. He was also into women, but it was really a 70/30 thing. Or even an 80/20 thing, in the sense that if he ever pictured himself settling down and getting married (though to be honest, his feelings on marriage had really soured) it was usually to another man. 

Which was the aforementioned worst part. It was the modern era and all that, but the fact remained that Eddie made his living off of straight women who liked the way he looked, teenagers who liked his personality, and a select few straight men who wanted someone to sell them the perfect grill to take to a cookout (never mind that Eddie hated cooking).

There were, of course, men who followed Eddie because they liked him Like That. Which was all well and good, but the fact remained that Eddie knew more than a few former contestants of the Bachelor franchise who pulled to the right on a Kinsey scale, if they weren’t straight up gay, and no one came out if they wanted to keep making a living. The Bachelor would show you creep shots of people feeling each other up in darkened hotel rooms as long as it served a narrative; everyone knew that sex sold, but to maintain an audience, it was only and exclusively between men and women. 

Not that Eddie actually wanted to meet someone on TV. Everyone was a psychopath or couldn’t commit, he knew that. Or they wanted to be famous, which was a blend of the two. Eddie didn’t exactly need to go to therapy to know that he himself had emotional problems. 

This was why, when he got an email asking about his interest and availability for the upcoming season of Bachelor in Paradise, he knew that he would be saying no even as he skimmed it. The email was very _Gorgeous vacation!_ and _Second chance at love!_ and _Fan favorites!_ It also outlined how much Eddie would be paid per episode, which was pennies considering how much it cost to be on the show, but everyone knew that the money came after. Eddie finished reading, scoffed, and closed his laptop with as much force as was reasonable. 

Later, laying on the couch in sweats and post-mating Chipotle (no cheese, no sour cream, no guac, life was hell) Mike called. Mike had been a fellow contestant on Eddie’s season; he and Ben had become Eddie’s close friends in the house. Eddie thought they were hard not to fall in love with; the Bachelorette herself had obviously thought otherwise. Eddie always stood next to them at events, even though they made him look like a shrimp and highlighted the fact that he would never be chosen as the next Bachelor (thank God) but for them, the chances were pretty good. 

Eddie hit accept on the FaceTime request. “Tell me this is about some archaeological dig in Paraguay you read about and not casting for Bachelor in Paradise,” Eddie said, by way of greeting.

“Nice to see you too, Eddie,” Mike said. “Nice headband, by the way. Real cute.” 

Eddie scowled. “It keeps my hair off my forehead. Sorry some of us don’t have naturally perfect skin.” 

“Mm. Anyway, I guess you got the email.”

From what Eddie could see, Mike’s phone was propped up against the marble splashback by his kitchen sink. Mike actually liked cooking – he was at the stove now, and Eddie could hear something sizzling in a pan. Probably asparagus and chicken, or something with brown rice. Eddie had to try a whole lot harder than Mike to stay muscular, sure, but almost all of them ate pretty much the same thing: a shit ton of protein, a shit ton of vegetables. Barely any carbs. No processed sugars. 

It fucking sucked. Based on the cooking sounds alone, it sounded to Eddie like Mike was already gearing up for a couple of weeks on TV with his shirt off. “Yeah,” Eddie said. “No fucking thanks.”

Technically they weren’t supposed to talk about it, but they all did. Who was going, who was thinking of going. Who was already sleeping with each other. Who didn’t like each other and would therefore inevitably be placed in the same season. Chris Harrison might be selling a beach paradise to viewers around the world, but to Eddie it sounded like hell. “I’d rather market diet teas.” 

“You don’t mean that,” Mike said, and Eddie sighed. He didn’t. He might have sold his soul to Bachelor Nation, but even he had limits. He did ads for tooth whitening strips, not eating disorders. “It’s not so bad,” Mike continued. “Three weeks on a beach? Open bar? Come on, Eddie.” 

“Implying that I wouldn’t make it to week four,” Eddie said. “Ouch.”

Mike shrugged but didn’t disagree. “Just saying. Couldn’t hurt your follower count. Boost you into a magazine feature.” 

Eddie sat up on the couch. “Chris Harrison, is that you? Believe me, I’m trying to get myself out of the shit, not make it work.”

“Well,” Mike said, and reiterated, “It wouldn’t hurt.” 

The conversation switched to other topics – low carb recipes and protein shakes (ugh), if Mike was going to keep seeing that girl he’d met at the bar, and if Eddie was going to that one music festival that was the place to be seen at (double ugh.) It ended with Mike making Eddie promise to at least watch his season, to which Eddie agreed begrudgingly. 

Of course, Eddie should have known better than to pick up Mike’s call. He definitely knew better than to entertain any conversation with him about Bachelor in Paradise – Mike was the voice of reason, and it wormed it’s war into Eddie’s ear and stuck there like a fucking splinter under his nail. Later that night, in bed and obsessively switching between Twitter and Instagram in the dark, Eddie accepted the truth: as much as he hated it, a boost to his numbers could help him stabilize his income. The sooner he did that, he promised himself, the sooner he could hop off the wagon and forget the whole thing. 

Opening his calendar app, he squinted at his schedule, already mentally shifting things around. He’d have to pay his rent early through the month, and get someone to water his plants. If Ben wasn’t going, he could take the food from Eddie’s fridge so it wouldn’t go bad. That just left….

Eddie rolled over to lay on his stomach and, after a moment’s hesitation, opened his text thread with Richie. After a few drafts, he sent _So I might be going away for a few weeks._

It didn’t take long for him to respond. _another sponsored vacation in the galapagos?? lemme guess, the turtles miss you, right?_

Eddie stared up at the ceiling for a second or two, thinking of how to respond. Eventually, he sent _It’s a secret. I’ll bring you back a present._

The little typing bubble came up, and then went away. Then Richie sent, _holy shit. you’re totally going on that beach show!!!! bachelor in paradise. bev said they were starting filming for that soon._

_...._

_dude!!!! that’s crazy holy shit!!!_

_Shut up, you’re not fucking supposed to know. You really can’t tell anyone._

_Even Bev._

_ESPECIALLY BEV._

_my lips are sealed,_ Richie sent. Eddie waited for him to text again, and Richie came through in less than two minutes. The picture wasn’t exactly a surprise, but it was welcome; Eddie turned his phone sideways to see it better. He even turned the brightness up. Even half lit in his bedroom in the dark, the hair on Richie’s chest made Eddie want to do something weird, like lick it against the grain. Richie texted, _for while you’re away. for now wanna come over?_

Eddie dragged his eyes up to check the time. It was late; he had a workout in the morning, and more importantly, he made a point to never sleep over at Richie’s. _Tomorrow,_ he sent. _After the gym. You free at ten?_

Maybe it was a little desperate, but Eddie thought it was a tidy compromise. Richie sent back _yummmmmmmm_ and gif from that stupid Justin Bieber music video _,_ which Eddie took to be a yes _._ He stared at it for a moment, and then turned off his phone completely and tried to get some sleep. 

+

Eddie met Richie a few months ago, right after he’d moved to LA. He hated LA, and almost everyone in it – people walked too slow on the sidewalks; everyone had a fucking Prius and acted like they were saving the world because they drove a hybrid; Eddie burned easily in the sun and was deathly afraid of getting skin cancer. But his manager had been trying to get him in the city for the longest time and Eddie, like most people, could be worn down with persistence and sheer annoyance. He justified it to himself: the few friends he had made through all of this lived in LA, and when it was over, he could move somewhere nice and quiet and boring, like Maine. Or a cabin in the middle of the woods. For now, though, he would take advantage of the year round great weather and take a lot of pictures of himself biking or going on hikes or at the beach. And if he snapped early, he would at least have a backlog of content to release while he Jack-Nicholson-style raved in a big, empty, snowed in house. 

They’d met one of those coffee shops that couldn’t decide what it was; or rather, it had decided to be a conglomerate mess that gave Eddie a headache. That was to say, it was a coffee shop during the day and transitioned to a bar at night. Eddie wouldn’t care about this, but they shut off their wifi during the bar hours, and Eddie had subsequently found out when he had wanted to do some computer work through the late afternoon. So, in principle, it pissed Eddie off. But they made a great flat white. 

He’d been waiting for his coffee order and angrily texting Ben about a company that had ignored his contract but insisted – _insisted_ – on Eddie making a whole Instagram highlight for them when he heard his name called out by the barista. Or rather, he heard the barista call out the _wrong_ name. 

As he took his coffee, Eddie said, “It says Edward on the cup, just so you know. Not Eddie.” 

The man behind the counter blinked at him and then smiled. “Yeah, well. Aren’t you that Bachelor guy? You go by Eddie on the show, right?” 

Eddie inwardly groaned and did not correct him to say _Actually, it was the Bachelorette_. Shovels and holes and digging deeper and all that. “Just – it’s Edward.” 

“Gotcha,” the guy said, and then leaned forward on the counter. “So, like, did you win? My roommate is the one who watches, so I don’t really know all the details,” he added, sounding a degree apologetic.

Eddie stared at him, and then looked around the shop. It was completely dead, except for a guy by the window on his laptop. He turned back to the barista. “You’re fucking with me, right?” 

The barista had the nerve to look amused. “No? I told you, my roommate is the one who likes the show. She’s actually like, obsessed, but don’t tell her I told you.” 

“I don’t know your roommate, dipshit,” Eddie said. “And no, I didn’t ‘win’. Obviously.” 

As he said it, he realized that a) he sounded touchy, like he wasn’t over it, which like, there wasn’t even anything to get over, and b) he had just called a fan a dipshit and would probably get cancelled on Twitter now. Or, not a fan, but a normal person, who could take to the internet to write the equivalent of a bad Yelp review, only Eddie was the restaurant. Fuck. He braced himself for the inevitable, but the guy just smiled. “So, you’re single,” he said. 

Eddie blinked, and then for the first time, got a good look at him. _Total LA type,_ he thought disparagingly, _Right down to the hipster glasses._ His hair was a little too long, curls ratty, and he was wearing a t-shirt for a beer that Eddie had never heard of but featured a pink woman with long hair, cartoonish and naked and winking out at the world. He couldn’t see the guy’s legs behind the counter, but he was willing to bet that the knees of his jeans were ripped. It was a stupid look for someone who seemed around Eddie’s age. 

He could have said anything in return – _Are you kidding? Are you stupid?_ but what came out of his mouth was, “Uh - ” 

The guy kept talking, oblivious to Eddie’s brain clocking out for the day. “Because if you didn’t win, then - ” 

“Just because I didn’t win doesn’t mean I’m _single,_ ” Eddie interrupted, offended in spite of himself. 

“ – _which_ was why I asked,” the man continued. “This was the part where you answer me.” 

“Fuck off,” Eddie said, deciding in the moment that when it came to Twitter, it was better to be called an asshole than to be called a fag. 

He expected the guy to tell Eddie to fuck off right back, but as Eddie spun on his heel and stalked out of the shop he only heard “Check the cup!” from behind him. 

The cup, of course, had a number scrawled on the side. Eddie, still power walking away, scowled at it, drank his coffee so fast it burned the shit out of his tongue, and threw the cup in the nearest garbage can. Then he doubled back around the building, because he’d gone in the wrong direction in his haste to get away. 

+

When Eddie stepped off a plane in Mexico, he wanted a shower and a coffee. Instead he climbed into the back of a sedan and tried to sleep on the hour drive to the resort. After stumbling out of the back of a Ford Escape, he to was sent to hair and make up, and got dressed in a stupid, Bachelor appropriate outfit: a short sleeved button down, khaki shorts, and espadrilles. Something that said, _Wow! I am here in Mexico! Maybe you could picture dating me! Here! In Mexico!_

About a week ago, he’d been laying in Richie’s bed after one of their early morning fucks, counting the seconds until he’d overstayed his welcome and had to leave. Next to him, Richie had stretched, the light coming in through his shitty blinds slanting across the way his rib cage shifted under his skin.

“So,” he’d said, voice rough like it always was in the morning. “When you get to Cancun – “ 

“Sayulita.” 

“Right. Gesundheit,” Richie said, smiling. “When you get to _Sayulita_ , you’re gonna, what? Find the love of your life?” 

“Ew.” Eddie wrinkled his nose. “No, I’m gonna find a BlueApron sponsorship.” 

Richie hummed. He was quiet for a moment before he said, “Do people ever actually find like, real relationships from these things? Because I gotta say, you’re one cynical guy. I’m worried that you’re gonna like, totally kill the vibe.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie said, and then, “Yeah. There’s some success stories that everyone obsesses over. Season two, season three. There’s also some pretty brutal breakups. But most of the time it’s really not that serious.” 

“Maybe it is if you’re there for the _right reasons_ ,” Richie said, rolling onto his side to face Eddie, and grinning like the smarmy bastard he was. 

Eddie groaned and hit him with a pillow. “Shut up, shut up, you said you weren’t gonna watch it, oh my god.” 

Richie held his hands up to fend off the attack. “I didn’t! At least, not your season. Bev was watching on Hulu and I sat in for a few minutes.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Eddie. “Seems like people don’t take too kindly for people not actually being there for love.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m not gonna be there for more than a few weeks, anyway,” Eddie said dismissively. “I’m more attracted to the open bar than the idea of having to give some woman a hideous pillow cut ring.” 

Richie chuckled. “And you know all about the shape of the diamond.” 

“Because it’s ugly and the same! Every! Time!” Eddie whacked him with the pillow a few more times for emphasis. 

“Alright, I got it, I got it,” Richie said, laughing again. “But, seriously though,” he said, looking intently at Eddie. “Maybe, you should, you know, take it seriously. Really go for it. You’re a great guy.” 

“Oh,” Eddie said, at a loss and taken aback at the sudden change in tone. “Uh, yeah. Maybe.” 

When he swung his legs over the side of Richie’s mattress to put his running shorts back on exactly thirty seconds later (he’d counted in his head), Richie didn’t act very surprised. “So,” Eddie said, his back to Richie as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ll see you, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Richie said. Eddie didn’t turn back to look at him, so he didn’t know what expression Richie was making, but his voice was soft, and then he cleared his throat. “Bring me back something good.”

So. That had been fucking weird. It also felt further than the fifteen hundred odd miles that separated them. Right now Richie was probably working or getting high with Bev, whereas Eddie was sipping at a Mojito and trying to get to know the woman in front of him. 

“So, what do you do?” She asked, fishing a cherry out of her drink and popping it into her mouth. 

Her name was Carla. She’d been on the Bachelor a few seasons ago. Eddie watched as much as anyone else who’d been on the show did (that was, fairly regularly) but he didn’t really know anything memorable about her. He liked her well enough, and there weren’t any cameras around, so he said truthfully, “You know. This.” 

She grinned around the cherry, pulling the stem from between her teeth. “And if the cameras are rolling?”

“Financial consultant. Insurance.” 

“So….boring stuff that no one would bother to fact check, you mean.” 

Eddie frowned. “I _did_ do that stuff. Just, you know, before. Plus, _you_ don’t have to say that you do anything. Everyone’s okay with women being Instagram models.” 

“Right, it’s like guys have to have real jobs. Even if they’re just on social media modeling – “

“Watches,” Eddie finished, and she laughed, twisting the stem of the cherry around her finger. 

It was hard to know if you liked someone after only a few hours, but Eddie thought that he could tell that Carla liked him. For one, he knew he wasn’t that funny. Richie was funny – but he wasn’t here. Carla was, and she was laughing at his dumb jokes.

“Well,” Carla continued. “Instagram model or financial consultant, here we are.” She dropped her voice a little, conspiratorially. “Not sure why they let Scooter in though. Everyone else seems like a cut above.” 

Eddie struggled to hold in a laugh and failed. “Thank God someone said it.” 

“I mean, trying to build up a rap career? There’s no way. Like, white children who listen to KidzBop are harder than him.” 

“Oh my god,” Eddie said. “Please tell me you said that in a confessional.” 

“And get the vill edit? I’m not looking to write a book after all this.”

“I think you’d actually be a national hero.” 

“Don’t worry, I have other plans.” She grinned. “I’m unionizing the other women to get him out of here at the first elimination. If he gets a rose, someone’s a scab.”

“I think,” Eddie said, “That I found the only person worth sitting next to in this resort.”

Carla smiled at him over her drink. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.” 

+

The second time Eddie saw Richie, a week had passed. He’d been avoiding the coffee shop and missing the flat whites, but he just didn’t feel like dealing with it: it being, of course, the barista. In the days following The Incident (the phone number, the cursing out a perfect stranger, etc) Eddie would find himself awash with waves of anxiety that would really only go away during his morning runs. There was nothing like the overwhelming fear of being outed that made you finally break a five minute mile. 

Then, of course, Mike and Ben wanted to go out, and before Eddie knew it they’d ended back up at that same bar/coffee shop from hell, because Ben couldn’t get enough of _the vibes_. That, and the place had surprisingly good lighting, if someone wanted to hypothetically take a picture and post it on Instagram. 

He’d hoped against hope that the barista was just a barista, and not also a bartender. But of course, America was the model of late stage capitalism and Eddie should have known better. They’d walked in and there he was, not behind the espresso machine but flipping a cocktail shaker at a different part of the bar. 

“Fuck,” Eddie said lowly, right as Mike and Ben spied a booth that had opened up towards the back. 

Ben dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Start a tab for us, will you Eds?” 

“Uh,” Eddie said again, but Mike and Ben were already gone. _Shit fuck._ Eddie steeled himself and cleared his throat. “Um, can I get two gin and tonics? And a uh, Sex on the Beach?” 

The bartender turned around. Eddie tried not to cringe as he gave him a once over and raised an eyebrow, amused. Between his plain black tee and the way he was bracing his arms on the bar, it was a lot harder for Eddie to pretend he wasn’t attracted to him. 

“Let me guess,” he said, “The Sex on the Beach is for your super hot fitness model girlfriend.”

Eddie felt the back of his neck heat and cleared his throat. “No, that’d be for my super hot fitness model friend. Who is a man.” 

The bartender followed Eddie’s head jerk to where Ben and Mike were, already on the other side of the bar and throwing darts, and grinned big, all teeth. “I see. That’s kinda cute. You travel together, like firemen.” 

“Could you make the drinks?” Eddie asked, clipped. “Please?” 

He snorted. “Since you asked so nicely.” 

They were quiet as he worked. Eddie thought he threw the lime wedge into one of the G&T’s a little roughly, but whatever. He was relieved when the bartender slid the drinks across the bar. 

“Surprised you guys aren’t drinking beer,” he said. “You know, supporting the American brewery.” 

“Beer is all sugar,” Eddie said, reaching for the drinks. “Empty calories for no pay off. And it tastes like piss.”

“Right, and a Sex on the Beach is so healthy.” 

“Yeah, well,” Eddie said, “That’s Ben. He, you know, likes eating brown rice and vegetables. He can afford it” 

“Just like Showgirls,” The bartender said sagely. Eddie thought he was going to move on to another customer when he said, “Hey, so, you never called.”

Eddie, who had a hand wrapped around his drink, raised an eyebrow at him, and then looked around. No one was near, but still. “No shit, Sherlock.” 

“You accidentally throw away the cup?” 

Eddie eyed him before saying, “Look. Are you like, rich?”

The guy laughed and tapped his name tag. “Most people call me Richie, but yeah. You heard of me, or something?”

“I meant money,” Eddie said. “Because believe me, I’m only going on dates with people who have enough money to get the fuck off this ride.” 

“‘The ride’ being what?” Eddie glared and he laughed. “Oh, I see. So sad, you hate being Instagram famous. Well, I’m both a barista _and_ a bartender, so you can probably take a wild guess at my financial situation. But you could get on _this_ ride, if you wanted.” He winked, badly. “If you’re picking up what I’m putting down.” 

“Yeah, I got it,” Eddie said. “Do you ever shut the fuck up?” 

“Yeah, if you tell me to. You know, in – “ 

“In bed,” Eddie said, and again, “I got it. Seriously though, what the fuck are you doing? I mean, you know who I am. You know what I do. So you know what the chances are that I would go out with you.” 

When Richie laughed, it sounded a little forced. A little hurt. “Ouch, man.” 

Eddie scowled. “I didn’t….mean it like that. I just meant, like, me. My situation.” 

“Uh huh,” Richie said. “Which is what? What do male influencers peddle, anyway?” He dropped his chin into his hands in a way that made Eddie very much not want to answer. “Eyeliner for men?” Eddie recognized the Friends reference; he felt a little smug that Richie’s Joey voice was not very good. 

“Seltzers, mostly,” Eddie said tersely. “Camping or workout gear. Coffee. Low calorie beers.” 

Richie turned the corners of his mouth down severely, in what Eddie guessed was an approximation of a Serious Businessman. “Very manly. Heterosexual.” 

“Hey – “

“Although the coffee gives me pause. Seems a little lavender, if you know what I mean. Straight guys just watch the incest Folger’s commercial and they’re sold, right?” 

Eddie, who had posted a sponsored Instagram post for a coffee subscription service just that week ( _You don’t want to miss this one, guys. It comes right to your door, use the code EddieK for the first two months free…)_ felt his blood heat. “Listen,” he said, jabbing a finger towards Richie and leaning forward. “You don’t know shit and you don’t know my life.” 

Richie’s eyes widened. “Hey man, I just – ” and then he cut off, his gaze flicking up and over Eddie’s shoulder. 

“So that’s why you’ve been taking so long,” Eddie heard Mike say, and then felt his hand at his elbow. “Figured you needed a hand with the drinks,” he said to Eddie, and then reached around him to offer a hand to Richie. “Mike Hanlon, nice to meet you.”

“Rich Tozier,” Richie said, sounding a little dazed. This Eddie could understand, because Mike and his giga-watt smile had that effect on people. “Nice to meet you.”

“Come on, Eddie,” Mike said. “We could use your aim.” 

Eddie didn’t look behind him on the way to their table, but he thought he could feel Richie’s eyes on his back. 

+

By the third day on the beach, it was clear that there was a love triangle forming. Eddie, who was not even tangentially involved, could practically feel the producers salivating, just out of view of the cameras. They were always there, baseball caps pulled low and ready to offer water bottles and sometimes a shoulder to cry on, and Eddie was sure that they were mentally cutting together a very dramatic and engaging storyline that would keep America glued to their television sets. 

Luckily (or unluckily, depending on who was talking) for the rest of the contestants, this meant that cameras were somewhat lax on the rest of the cast. So, when Carla sat next to Eddie at breakfast whispered in his ear, he found himself nodding. That afternoon, when most people were napping or reading in their rooms, Eddie and Carla made their way to one of the large daybeds that always made him feel like he was one of the cats in Cats; that was, it was fucking massive and made no sense and was proportioned in a way that made him feel like a household pet when he sat on it. 

Carla leaned over and dropped a gummy into Eddie’s drink; he frowned down at it where it floated next to a crushed wedge of lime. “You couldn’t have just given it to me?” 

She grinned around her own gummy. “Where’s the fun in that?” 

Eddie drank deeply to catch it in his mouth and wrinkled his nose as he chewed it. “This tastes like shit.” 

She snorted. “It tastes like weed.” 

“And gin. How’d you even get them in here? Didn’t they go through your suitcase?”

They’d lain down, and she turned her head to look at him and grin again. “They’re looking for oxycontin, not the contents of my Sugar Bear Hair vitamin bottle.” 

It took almost forty minutes for the edibles to kick in, and by the time it had, Tim, another contestant had come to join them on the daybed. Eddie liked him well enough; he was tall and had dark hair and looked like he played soccer the way Ben looked like he played soccer. He also thought that Tim liked Carla, which was too bad for everyone, because Carla liked Eddie, and she really had better chances with Tim. Then he didn’t know why he thought that, because he liked Carla fine and there was no reason why he shouldn’t try to get her rose this week. 

It was all becoming too confusing, so Eddie focused on the sound of the waves hitting the sand, a hundred feet away and all too close. 

“I’ve been looking at my nails for like, the last ten minutes,” Carla eventually said, and Eddie lifted his head to look. They were painted seafoam green and she had a ring on her right index finger. Maybe the stone was an opal; Eddie found himself looking at it for a beat too long. 

“I wish I had painted nails,” he said.

Carla giggled. “I’ll do them for you.” 

“Not here,” Eddie said. 

“Not here,” Carla agreed sagely. “You get, uh, up, often?” (They couldn’t actually say high, so they’d resorted to high school tricks as a way to talk about it without their mic packs narcing on them.) 

“No,” Eddie said. “Though I have a – my friend, he gets stoned a lot. Not like, anything crazy, just weed mostly.” 

“Back in LA?” 

“Yeah, back in LA. Sometimes I worry about him,” Eddie said, and it surprised him, but he continued as if his brain wasn’t connected to his mouth. “But like, I guess he’s more functional at this than me. I can’t do it every day.” 

“Why do you worry?” 

“I don’t know. I guess like….maybe I’m not a good friend. I don’t know.” 

“Huh,” Carla said, and then scooted a little closer. “You seem pretty good, from where I’m laying.” 

“Maybe,” Eddie said.

“It’s sweet, though,” Carla said. She leaned in close to whisper, “I think Tim’s asleep.” 

Eddie twisted to look behind them, and sure enough, Tim was dozing with a hand thrown over his eyes to shield from the sun. “Yeah, I think you’re right,” Eddie said as he turned his head back to Carla, and then she was there with a hand on his cheek. 

She was wearing red lipstick, and Eddie was sure that it was all over him when she pulled back. Carla swiped under his lip with her thumb to get some of it off. 

“Poor Tim,” was all Eddie could think to say. 

Carla laughed. “He’ll be fine,” she said. “Well, he might be a little sad when I give you my rose, but. I’m sure Atlanta misses him.” When Eddie blinked, she said, “I mean. If you’d want that.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “Yeah, I would.”

Carla smiled and kissed him again. 

+

Two months earlier, Eddie had been alone at a club in West Hollywood that did Bachelor themed nights. He hated stuff like this, but it paid and he really only had to mingle for an hour or two before it got late enough that all anyone really cared about was dancing and trying to get someone home. He’d come with Ben, and Audra, a finalist from the season of the Bachelor that had followed Eddie’s season of the Bachelorette. The problem was that she had driven Eddie, and now she was drunk and would be probably be catching a ride share home with someone anyway. 

Eddie forced himself to stay thirty minutes after he wanted to leave, and then dove into the crowd to find Ben and offer to share a Lyft. He thought he saw him, and then pushed through a crush of people to find himself face to face with none other than Richie Tozier, who apparently had a night off and had to be at _this_ nightclub. 

He was wearing a garish red button down that Eddie wanted to hate. Instead he found his eyes pulling to the shape of Richie’s shoulders and without thinking shouted “Hi,” over the music.

“Hey,” Richie shouted back, and he looked surprised, maybe that Eddie was talking to him. “We have to stop meeting like this!” 

“How’s that?” 

“You know, in public.” He seemed to catch himself and winced. “Sorry, habit. I actually wanted to say sorry.” 

Eddie could barely hear him. “Hold that thought,” he shouted, and took Richie by the wrist and pulled him through the throngs of people, back towards the bar tables and stools where it was marginally quieter. “Okay, continue.” 

Richie looked amused. “Did you bring me over here so you could hear me apologize?” 

“I mean, I assume that there’s more to it.”

“Uh, okay. Well.” Richie scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “I have like, a too-much gene? I just kind of run my mouth a lot. Mostly because I think it’s funny. But uh, I obviously took it too far. I shouldn’t have like, insinuated that stuff about you if it made you uncomfortable. So, yeah, I’m sorry.”

Eddie considered him. He _did_ look sorry, and more than a little like Eddie’s type, so he said, “Okay. Thank you.” 

“Thank you?” 

“Yeah, thanks. I’m not gonna apologize for calling you a dipshit because I was right.” 

The corner of Richie’s mouth crooked up. “Yeah, I guess so. Well, uh, I’ll let you get back to. Whatever it is you’re doing here.” 

“Photo-ops, mostly,” Eddie said. 

Richie burst out laughing, like he couldn’t help himself. “Jesus, is everything you do for Instagram?”

“Kind of,” Eddie said. “But like, not cause I’m shallow. I just don’t have a life. What are you doing here?” 

“My friend DJs,” Richie said somewhat cautiously, like the follow up question had thrown him, and nodded up at the front of the dance floor, where a small, redheaded woman stood behind a mixer. “I came to, you know, support.” 

“That’s sweet,” Eddie said. “I don’t have any normal friends but if I did, I bet they wouldn’t come to any of my shit.” 

Richie gave him a funny look. “You’re being a little too nice to me. Are you drunk?” 

“Just a little,” Eddie said. “I’ve only had two drinks. Why?” 

“Usually I don’t get this far before before you tell me to fuck off,” Richie said. 

“Like I said,” Eddie said, leaning forward on his hands. “Two drinks.” 

Richie also leaned forward and hummed. “Two drinks could pack a punch for a little guy like you.” 

Eddie refrained from saying something teetering on the knife’s edge of heterosexuality, like, _Fred Astaire was also 5’9._ “Yeah, well. Not all of us can be tall, so fuck you.” 

“The Tozier men are a large bunch,” Richie agreed. 

“Uh huh,” Eddie said, and took another sip of his drink. “You could say that.” 

Richie coughed. “So, uh, you got any big influencer plans coming up?”

“We keep talking about me,” Eddie said. “I have to talk about me all the time already.” 

“Sorry,” Richie said, smiling. “I’m not really sure how to talk to famous people.” 

“Shut up, I’m not famous.”

“Well, what do you want to talk about instead?” 

Eddie took a final, long sip from his G&T, finishing it in one go. “How about, if you live around here?” 

Richie blinked and his mouth dropped open slightly. Eddie watched his cheeks tint pink in real time. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “I mean. Unless you don’t want to.” 

“No, I – it’s just.” Richie scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think you were…interested, I guess.” 

“Well.” Eddie said. “I am.” 

“Um. What changed?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eddie asked, knowing damn well what it meant. Richie didn’t know that he’d been thinking of him; all he knew was that Eddie usually yelled at him and then left. 

Richie said, “I didn’t think you liked me.” 

“I don’t,” Eddie said. “But maybe jacking off to you the other night really sealed the deal for me, or whatever.” 

He was definitely too sober to be saying things like that, but it was worth it to see Richie’s ears darken, “Christ,” he said faintly, and then, “I’ll call us an Uber.” 

It was a long ride, because it was LA and everything was a long ride. But there wasn’t much traffic, which must have been a first in the history of the city. Eddie, who didn’t usually go to other people’s places and hadn’t done this in a while, stared resolutely out the window. At some point, Richie shifted and his knee brushed Eddie’s; Eddie didn’t move away. 

They had to duck around a massive bougainvillea to get into Richie’s house; Eddie brushed a stray flower petal off of his shoulder as Richie fumbled with the lock. Then he got it open, and looked back at Eddie hesitantly, as if he thought Eddie would suddenly change his mind now that he had seen where Richie lived. Only when Eddie nodded his head at the door did Richie push it all the way open, and Eddie followed him inside. 

“Bev - my roommate, she’s the DJ at that club.” He said it quietly, dropping his keys on a table by the door. Eddie read between the lines; they were the only ones here. Richie turned to him and said, “So, um,” and Eddie crossed the space between them and pressed his mouth to his. 

Richie kissed him back eagerly, and his hands found Eddie’s waist through the layers of his Adidas windbreaker, which had been gifted to him last spring. 

“Fuck,” Eddie said against Richie’s open mouth. “Fuck, I haven’t gotten laid in forever.” 

Richie groaned at that. “Jesus Christ,” he said, and pulled Eddie closer. “Warn a guy first.” 

“Okay,” Eddie said, pressing forward so that their bodies were flush. “This is me warning you.” 

“Jesus,” Richie said again, pulling Eddie backwards through the darkened living room. Eddie followed as best he could while keeping himself attached to Richie. Maybe he hadn’t been touched in a while; maybe it was the smell of Richie’s deodorant. The scrape of Richie’s stubble against his cheek distracted him as they bumped into the wall, and then there was Richie’s open bedroom door, and they were tumbling through it, Eddie’s windbreaker lost along the way.

On the bed and sitting atop Richie, Eddie allowed himself to pause for a second. There Richie was, flat on his back and looking at Eddie like he might disappear. And he might – he thought about how easy it would be to walk out and forget all about it – but then Richie’s intake of breath kept him tethered there, to the warmth beneath him. 

He reached for Richie’s glasses, and Richie stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “I like to keep them on,” he said, and Eddie nodded and replied, “Stay up here.” 

Between Richie’s legs, fully clothed aside from his jacket, Eddie lay a hand on Richie’s bare hip to keep him still, even as he gasped above him. Richie’s hand found his shoulder and stayed, and like that, they completed a full circuit. And afterwards, on the ride home with his windbreaker back on, Eddie still felt a little bit of the electricity between his skin. 

\+ 

People were always on edge for rose ceremonies, but for the first time ever, Eddie felt strangely calm. For one, he didn’t have to wear a tux. Which, not like he minded, but it was 95 degrees out and humid as all fuck. Wearing a suit sans jacket was a welcome addition to the whole experience. And of course, he didn’t have to worry about where his rose was coming from. He’d be good through next week, and then the men would be the ones giving out roses. He could coast for a little while. 

Carla sat next to Eddie when they all gathered to start the night off. Chris Harrison, looking overdressed in a charcoal suit, gave them the usual spiel: before the rose ceremony, they would all mingle and sort things out at the cocktail party. After roses had been handed out, the contestants who weren’t chosen would say goodbye to everyone, and a car would be waiting for them to take them back to the hotel. 

“I’ll get us drinks,” Eddie said, once they were released to mingle. Carla smiled at him and made her way over to one of the seating areas by the pool. 

Tim was at the bar, alone and nursing a cocktail that had two umbrellas in it. He tipped his drink at Eddie as a way of greeting; Eddie nodded awkwardly and ordered two frozen margaritas. It was pretty clear that Tim might be going home tonight – Eddie hadn’t been especially tapped into the dynamics of the beach, but he knew that though Tim was six foot three and built, he’d failed to make a connection this week. He tried not to feel too guilty about it and mostly failed, but that was just the way it was. 

“Good night, Eddie?” Welles the bartender said, over the hum of the blender. 

“Uh, yeah,” Eddie said, glancing over at Tim again. Eddie might not know all of the drama that went down, but Welles did. He had two jobs: look nice while making drinks, and stir the pot. From where Eddie was standing, he did both extremely well. 

“I heard you and Carla are pretty close,” Welles was saying nonchalantly, now slicing lime wedges. Which, like, he was stalling, right? They definitely had pre-sliced limes. There was no way Welles did any of the real work of running a bar. “You’re trying for her rose tonight, right?”

“Mhmm,” Eddie said, his finger tapping on the bar top. 

“You’re a great guy,” Welles said, even though they’d talked a collective three times, because Eddie knew Welles was too good looking to talk to while drinking. “You should go for it.” 

It was very close to what Richie had said to Eddie a week ago, while he was laying in his bed and willing himself to leave. Eddie blinked and stopped tapping the counter for a second, because he’d been actively trying not to think of Richie while he was here. He’d told himself it was because Richie wasn’t relevant – or was he too distracting? He was distracting in person, that was for sure. There was no way Eddie could keep his head in the game here if he was thinking about Richie’s big hands or his chest, or his smile or the way his glasses looked, folded up on the nightstand when he fell asleep while Eddie was cleaning up in the bathroom after they’d fucked. 

And. Well. It was normal to think about the last person you’d slept with, right? And before Richie, there hadn’t been anyone for a while. So it made sense. Right? 

Eddie frowned. What didn’t make sense was wishing that Richie were here right now. Or that he could go back to LA and wake up in Richie’s bed after spending the night, instead of jogging over at seven in the morning to get eachother off and barely kiss. 

_Oh, fuck_. 

“Fucking shit,” Eddie said aloud. Tim and Welles looked over – people didn’t usually swear on the beach; it got beeped in post anyway. Eddie’s eyes darted frantically around the beach. “I have to – I gotta go. Find Carla.” 

“Wait, man,” Tim said, twisting on his bar stool. “Your drinks.” 

“Right. Fuck. Thanks Tim,” Eddie said, scooping up the newly finished frozen margaritas in both hands. He paused to add, as sincerely as possible, “Really. Thank you.” 

Eddie fast walked up to the pool, and then paused before he would be visible to Carla to take deep, calming breaths. He’d barely had time to think. Somehow he had to get back to LA, and soon. He knew what he had to do, but not how to do it. 

Fuck. Okay. 

Carla was sitting on a stone bench under some fairy lights when Eddie crossed the mini bridge over the pool to get to her. She smiled when she caught sight of him, and Eddie tried not to glance at the cameraman following him. 

“Thanks,” she said, as Eddie passed her a drink. 

“No, thank you,” Eddie said, sweating a little. “My hands are frozen.” 

“Doesn’t bother me,” Carla said, sipping at the margarita. “I have perma-cold hands.” 

“Cold feet?” 

“Nah,” Carla said, and smiled at him. “You’re pretty alright.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “So, uh, I have to talk to you.” 

“Okay,” Carla said. Maybe she sensed something in the tone of his voice, because her eyes slid away from his face to the cameras a few feet away. “Is this like, a standing-by-the-ocean-so-they-can’t-hear-us conversation?” 

“Hey, now,” a producer said, in a rare moment of intrusion. 

“Sorry, Adrian,” Carla said. “Kidding. Maybe.” 

“Uh, no,” Eddie said. “I don’t think so. I mean we can, if you want.” 

“Eddie,” the producer said, a little less jovially this time.

“Sorry, Adrian,” Eddie said, and took Carla’s hand. “Jesus, your hand is cold.” 

“Told you,” Carla said, holding his hand back. “So what’s up?”

Eddie took a deep breath. “Okay, so I’m going to try to be as honest with you as I can with, you know, an audience.” Eddie heard Adrian sigh, annoyed, and Carla looked at him expectantly. “I think you should give Tim your rose.” 

Carla raised an eyebrow. “Why?” 

“Well. For starters, I’m like 5’9 and I have a chipped tooth – “ 

“You _used_ to,” Carla interrupted. 

“Yeah, I mean, before I got it fixed. But Tim’s like, you know. He looks like an HBO heartthrob.” 

“What, do _you_ want to give Tim a rose?”

Eddie flushed. “No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

Carla rolled her eyes a little. “I’m kidding, Eddie. Look, I know you’re not insecure about the way you look. Well, besides your height. And your tooth.” 

“Which we just established that I got fixed, but thanks for calling me short.” 

“I mean, _I_ didn’t say anything about it.” She squeezed his hand lightly. “But really, what’s going on?” 

How to say it without outing himself on TV? “Okay, look. It’s not like – I like you, I do. But I think it’s best if I go home tonight.” 

Carla’s mouth twisted. “Do you have a girlfriend?” 

“Wha- no. No, I don’t have a girlfriend. I wouldn’t do that.” 

“Is there _some_ one back in LA?” 

“Um,” Eddie said. _Kind of._ But he said, “No,” and tried to really look at Carla to telepathically communicate _Look, okay, fine, there’s this guy that I’ve been hooking up with, that I mostly just thought was really annoying but I just saw Welles flip a cocktail shaker down at the bar and realized that I might have actually caught feelings. Not for Welles, for the guy back home. I mean, Welles, a little, I’m only human. But obviously I can’t say any of this because I’m a guy and the guy back home is a guy, and also if anyone thinks I was talking to someone before coming on the show I’m gonna get cancelled like that Jed guy, even though Bachelor in Paradise really isn’t as big of a deal as the Bachelorette and we all know it._

Or, something like that.

“I think….that you should explore other connections on the beach,” Eddie ended up saying. “I don’t want to hold you back from um, finding love.” 

Carla looked at him for a moment, and then sighed. “You know, Tim’s not a consolation prize,” she said, and Eddie winced.

“I know, I know, I just – “ 

“I mean, like you said. HBO heartthrob. He’s kind of like, gold medal material, right?”

Eddie choked out a laugh. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Carla said. “Just don’t be too sad when you go back to LA. I’m a catch.” 

“You are,” Eddie promised. “I’ll, um, look you up.”

“ _I’ll_ look _you_ up,” Carla said. “You just might have to wait a while. I’m not going home anytime soon.” 

“Of course not,” Eddie said, relief and incredulity flooding through his body. “You’re a catch.” 

“Exactly.” She stood, offering him her hand. Tim really was lucky, Eddie thought. It was almost too bad his thoughts were fixated on a certain bartender with terrible shirts and ugly glasses.

Almost. 

“Come on, the rose ceremony’s starting,” Carla said, and Eddie took her hand. ”Let’s knock ‘em dead.”

+

Before Eddie had left Richie’s bed the first time, he’d let Richie put his name in his phone. At the time he’d told himself a good fuck buddy was hard to come across. In actuality, it had probably been because even back then, he had started to like Richie. 

The flight from Sayulita to LA had been three hours; the ride from the airport to Richie’s house was another hour. Eddie had spent the night and early hours of the morning staring at their text thread, which was mostly just variations of _u up?_ and nudes and occasionally weird selfies Richie took at work and sent to Eddie when he was bored. The last thing in it was a message from Richie that read _good luck!!!_ Eddie had thumbs-upped the message, and that had been a week ago. 

He knew as he climbed out of the uber in front of Richie’s palce that he should have gone home and texted before just showing up, but he had spent the whole flight trying to come up with something to say. He’d started sleeping with Richie because he was feeling stupid and wanted something for himself; maybe that would work here too. Maybe Richie also wanted something. Eddie had spent two months in a state of going to or leaving his bed; he thought of all the times Richie had talked to him while his back was turned. Gently pushing aside the bougainvillea branches to get to the front door and ring the doorbell, he hoped Richie would want Eddie to stay this time. 

As he waited, he took stock of his situation: it was very early in the morning, and Eddie was standing in his travel wrinkled athleisure with a huge suitcase off to one side, and his duffle still on his shoulder. He hadn’t shaved that day, and he knew a five o’clock shadow was starting to come in. He’d been awake for thirty hours, and as he rang the doorbell again, he had the sudden realization that it very well could be Bev who opened the door. 

But it was Richie, sleep rumpled and blinking against the dim light, who stood in the doorway. His hair was sticking up and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was warm and real and right in front of Eddie, and Eddie stood frozen for a moment, laid bare with all his luggage in the middle of Los Angeles.

“Eddie?” Richie said, his voice rough with sleep and pitched high in confusion. “What are you doing here? I thought you were filming in Mexico.” 

“You’ll learn all about it in a few months,” Eddie said, and then stepped forward to crush his lips against Richie’s. 

Richie was only still a moment before he opened his mouth to Eddie and wrapped his hand around his side, slotting his fingers against his ribcage. Eddie’s shirt rucked up, and Richie’s palm against his skin refracted into a thousand points of heat, bouncing around his body like the light of a candle in a hall of mirrors. 

When Richie pulled back, he’d trapped Eddie’s left hand in his own; he pulled it towards himself to inspect it now. “Huh,” he said. “No pillow cut ring.” 

“As if I would ever let something like that go on my finger,” Eddie said, rolling his eyes. And then he added, “Um. In case it wasn’t obvious, I uh, came back. For you. I really like you.” 

Richie hit his lip to hold back a smile. “What about the Blue Apron sponsorship?” 

“You know I hate that shit,” Eddie said. “I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do. Finish out my contracts and then grovel and try to get back into insurance, I guess.” 

“We could start a podcast,” Richie said thoughtfully. “You know, build our own media empire.” 

“Sure,” Eddie said. “I’ll agree to anything as long as we go inside and nap right fucking now.” 

“And by nap you mean...”

“I mean nap. I haven’t slept in like two days.”

“Oh thank god,” Richie said, reaching to take Eddie’s duffle bag off his shoulder. “It’s so fucking early.” He slung it over his shoulder and paused. “And. In case it isn’t obvious. I really like you too.” 

Eddie smiled and picked up his suitcase where it had fallen, but kept his left hand twined with Richies as he led them both back into the house and away from the LA morning. The joggers on the street had been up for hours, and Eddie was usually in a Pilates class right now. 

Richie’s bed had never seemed better. 

+

It took six weeks to hear from Carla, which Eddie took as a sign that she either didn’t want him in her life, or she was engaged. When she dm’d him on Instagram to ask for his phone number, he figured it was the latter. 

Richie found Eddie on the front porch as he was getting off the phone several hours later. “Was that the other woman?” he asked, looping his arms around Eddie’s waist and dropping his nose into the junction of his shoulder and neck. Eddie shivered a little and didn’t push him off. 

“Don’t call her that,” he said, leaning back slightly. Richie, of course, caught his weight and held it. “She was a very important part of my journey.” 

“Your journey to my bed,” Richie muttered.

“Yeah, exactly,” Eddie said, turning in Richie’s arms to lean up for a kiss. Richie obliged; he always did. 

“So….she totally gave you the lowdown on every episode, right?” Richie said, smoothing Eddie’s eyebrow with his thumb. 

“Of course not,” Eddie said. “That would be a breach of our NDA.” 

Richie gave him a look. “Eddie.” 

“I can’t believe you think Carla would do something like that.” 

“Eds, come on,” Richie whined. “Just tell me.” 

Eddie bit back a grin. “Well,” he said. “I guess we’ll just have to watch and find out.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> because im sure you’re dying to know Carla and Tim get engaged at the end of the show and stay together forever i hate bip no i don’t yes i do no i don’t
> 
> of course, this fic would not exist if it weren't for [reconvenings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reconvenings/pseuds/reconvenings), thank you for enabling me :,)
> 
> thanks as always for reading! i have an it twitter, talk to me [here](https://twitter.com/jadedpearl1)


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